


throne of bayonets

by jockohomo



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Guilt, M/M, Wakes & Funerals, hatori is dead and frequently mentioned, ooi is an asshole, tfw your crush dies and it's kind of maybe your fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/pseuds/jockohomo
Summary: Seven of Hatori's colleagues see his execution, but only two attend the funeral.
Relationships: past Ooi Takeshi/Shimura Suguru, past one-sided Hatori Arayoshi/Shimura Suguru
Kudos: 2





	throne of bayonets

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for lots of discussion of death and the blame that comes with it, as well as a somewhat detailed (not too graphic, but potentially upsetting) description of a fatal car crash towards the beginning and a mention of vomiting. there's also a brief reference to climate change if that sort of thing stresses you out.

The weather had been surprisingly nice for October. Autumn had fallen upon the country long enough ago for Japan’s populace to expect cool weather, but it had been warm ever since the news of the death of Amane Misa’s manager reached the public consciousness; it almost felt like spring again.

 _“It’s weird, isn’t it?”_ Hatori had asked, leaning casually back against the wall in Shimura’s office as if he didn’t have the blood of yet another man on his hands. _“Really makes you think about the whole climate change thing. But, I mean, it sure does feel nice, doesn’t it? Even if it’s not actually a good thing. I wouldn’t mind if this lasted forever.”_

The same pattern had continued through the next few days, with blue skies and comfortable temperatures. Wednesday had been particularly nice, even after the firmament had darkened — nice enough for car drivers on the highway outside Tokyo to roll their windows down. If they had peered out into the clear twilight, they might have observed a blue Ford Mustang rammed through the guard rail by a wayward semi truck, crushed and mangled like an aluminum can and littered with shards of glass. If they had pulled off into the emergency lane and approached the car, they might have been able to glimpse the remains of the driver within the smashed frame of the vehicle, body torn and twisted unnaturally, pale hair tattered and face unrecognizable for the blood and bruising. If they had happened to be an executive at the Yotsuba Corporation, they might have connected the dots and realized that the broken corpse entrapped in the remains of the Mustang was Hatori Arayoshi. 

Of course, none of Hatori’s colleagues had borne witness to his demise or the aftermath thereof. They had caught word later in the night.

Shimura had seen him last — he remembered that every so often, and his stomach twisted each time. Hatori had been distraught, like any man from his walk of life would be when faced with his own impending demise. He had been distraught, but he had walked out the door all the same, to drive off to god knows where — back to his house, Shimura had assumed, but Hatori’s car, before its destruction, hadn’t been traveling in the direction of his sprawling suburban home. No one was sure where Hatori Arayoshi had been planning to go before his neck had been snapped by the force of impact. Maybe he hadn’t been planning to go anywhere at all; either way, it was too late now. 

All seven of them had been expecting it since Tuesday night, surely; most of them certainly had been, at least. That didn’t make it any easier. It didn’t keep Shimura from crying, or having nightmares about it, or retching up his insides the morning after (and the morning after that). 

He did not speak to any of them at work the next day. He left early to attend the wake, and the only faces he recognized were those of Hatori’s family. 

The funeral was scheduled for Friday morning, and at first he contemplated not attending at all. He had been at the wake, after all, and the idea of going through it all again sickened him — the idea of seeing the stoic frown on his wife’s face, the idea of hearing his children crying, the idea of approaching the casket and knowing that the body inside was too disfigured to be shown. Then he had remembered that anticipatory look Hatori gave him whenever he was waiting for laughter after a joke, the way he smiled when he talked about his kids, the enthusiasm in his voice when he showed Shimura his old manuscripts for the books he’d never published, the way fear had curved his frame when Higuchi had delivered his sentence. Then he decided that Hatori deserved better than his absence.

He arrived the same as he had the day before, eyes staring guiltily at the ground and hands caught rubbing at his wrists. The weather was reasonably cool, but he still felt like he was burning to death, like his shirt collar was wringing the life out of him. The thought had lingered in the back of his mind — he couldn’t tell if it was a hope or a fear — that he might find his colleagues gathered there as well, prepared to pay respects to the man they had abandoned to die. Hatori and Kida had been friends, he knew that well enough; he had gone drinking with Higuchi and Namikawa on Fridays before the Kira debacle began; he had been far more forgiving of Takahashi’s verbal missteps than anyone, except maybe Shimura. Really, if any of them had a wide circle of associates, it would be Hatori. If any of their deaths could rouse a showing, it would be Hatori’s. 

But Shimura did not see Takahashi. Shimura did not see Kida, either, and he certainly did not see Namikawa or Higuchi. Five of his six remaining companions in collusion had, for one reason or another, avoided appearing there. It was part of the way through the service when he finally spotted a familiar figure standing some distance through the crowd of mourners.

Ooi Takeshi was, apparently, the only other member of their meetings to show up. He was dressed the same as Shimura, in his black suit and tie, but he wore it differently. In fact, his posture seemed the same as usual; straight back, even shoulders, arms crossed over his chest. A few days ago, he might have looked stern.

He wasn’t facing Shimura, but after a moment, his head tilted. It was hard to tell whether or not their eyes made contact with Ooi’s sunglasses in the way — _Of course he’s still wearing his sunglasses,_ Shimura thought bitterly — but then the taller man gave him a brief nod before turning back towards the proceedings.

If Shimura had things his way — if Shimura had gotten things his way a long time ago — he would have stayed for the cremation. He would have stayed with the coffin overnight into that morning; he’d stay with it forever after that, too, because for the time being, he felt like the world was ending anyway. Everything was over now, or it would be soon. 

But he could do none of these things, and the world hadn’t ended yet. All he could do was rub the tears from his eye and head for his car.

(He had done the real crying earlier in the morning and had shown up to the funeral with his eyes red for that reason. At least he was too tired to keep it up.)

“Shimura.”

A hand made contact with his shoulder and Shimura halted, still trying to calm his breathing.

“Y-yes?”

“Are you alright?”

Shimura turned to see Ooi looking down at him, expression as calm and concealing as always. It was just as hard to read his tone, but he certainly didn’t hear _concern_ there. What else was new, though? This was how Ooi led; he’d come to his teammates (or subordinates, Shimura supposed, because that’s what he really was, even after all these years) with words of reassurance, but it was all empty. Everything he said was empty. It had been that way years ago, when they had lain together on Ooi’s expensive hotel bed in some American city, and it still was now. 

He swallowed. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Alright.” Ooi nodded. “I’ll be seeing you at work, then.”

He brushed past forwards to the sidewalk but Shimura remained rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the back of the other man’s head. A thought suddenly seized him and before he could stop himself, Shimura took a step forward. “Ooi.”

The man in question turned back to face him. “What is it?”

“Where is everyone else?”

Ooi paused. “It seems like there was a pretty large showing. I don’t know what you’re upset about.”

“I’m not — _upset_ ,” Shimura said. He didn’t expect Ooi to believe him. “I know there was a large showing, I mean — the _others_ , Ooi. The other five. They weren’t at the wake, either.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shimura shot a glance around the immediate area to find that the majority of the mourners had trickled out by now, with those who remained preoccupied with one conversation or another. He swallowed, closing the distance between himself and Ooi and tilting his head back to look at the other man. “Yes, you do. Please.”

Ooi sighed and, after a moment, removed his sunglasses, pulling a piece of fabric from his pocket and moving to wipe off the lenses. Still, he didn’t make eye contact; his eyes were focused on his hands, as if he weren’t talking to anyone at all. “What else did you expect? We all know the real circumstances. They probably think that Kira would misconstrue their attendance as sympathy. An act of defiance.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I don’t think Kira would take it that way.” Ooi placed the cloth back in his pocket and returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “What about you, Shimura?”

“I…” The truth was, Shimura hadn’t really considered it. The thought had crossed his mind, of course, but he hadn’t been able to dwell on it for long. In the heat of his grief, it had paled in comparison to the fact of the matter — it had paled in comparison to the death of his colleague. Of his _friend_. Of many, many other things. “It would’ve felt like a betrayal not to.”

“But you haven’t done anything treacherous.” Shimura couldn’t see the look in Ooi’s eyes, couldn’t read it, but he had an idea of what he was really saying.

_Hatori has, but you haven’t. Do you plan to keep it that way?_

His fists clenched and he hardly noticed it. “Don’t you think we could have done something, Ooi? Don’t you think we could have prevented this?”

“No.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do. You always think that way. You’d be better off if you didn’t.”

“But — but I’m _right_ ,” Shimura insisted, straightening his back and struggling to make out Ooi’s eyes behind those reflective lenses. His voice remained hushed, if ragged. “Kira started those meetings because he wanted our input, didn’t he? He would have taken it. We could have talked him out of it, if we had each spoken against it — at least if you had, or, or Namikawa, or Mido, since your opinions actually _matter_. Why didn’t you say anything? Were you scared Kira would condemn you, too?”

“Shimura. Calm down.”

“He’s _dead_ , Ooi. Hatori’s dead. As if we haven’t killed enough people already. He’s our — he was our friend.”

“He was _your_ friend, Shimura. He was _our_ colleague.” Ooi paused and rested a hand heavily on Shimura’s shoulder. “Listen. I know you’re upset, but it’s too late for regrets. He’s already gone. You can’t change that. It’s over.”

“It’s not over. This is going to keep happening, and we don’t have anyone to blame for it but ourselves.”

“Shimura. I know you cared about Hatori. Don’t let it cloud your judgement. We can’t afford to be emotional right now.”

Shimura remained there for a moment, eyes fixed on the other man’s glasses. It was then that he realized he had begun to tremble — with sadness or anger or fear or some other emotion, he wasn’t sure. He forced his fists to unclench, and, with some labor (god, his throat hurt), asked, “We’ll talk about it at the meeting, won’t we?”

“Of course we will.”

“Good.”

He didn’t know what else to say. It was not good; nothing was _good_ right now. He was baffled, from somewhere deep within the pit of despondency that had opened up inside his mind, that Ooi could stand there in his suit with his back straight and his shoulders tall, voice flat and raised in solemn warning, telling him to move on, telling him to keep his thoughts unclouded, telling him not to _blame himself_. As if any of them were free of blame; as if any of them didn’t deserve whatever punishment they had coming. Ooi especially, for failing as a leader to protect Hatori, and Shimura especially, for failing as a friend.

But it would be brought up that night. Surely the others would show their grief. Surely some of them cared.

“Shimura.”

“What is it?”

“You’re crying.”

Shimura’s eyes widened and he brought a hand to his face. Ooi was right, of course — there were tears dripping down his cheeks. He couldn’t bring himself to wipe them away. 

“I’ll see you at the meeting tonight. Don’t forget to show up,” Ooi said, finally, his voice low and meaningful. “Take care.”

Shimura was watching his colleague’s blurring figure disappear into the parking lot when he was hit by a gust of wind and realized that that week’s warm weather was beginning to fade. It would be the last Japan had that year.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is taken from a william inge quote; writing music was you talk way too much by the strokes, which is possibly the ultimate ooimura song. 
> 
> https://sugurushimura.tumblr.com/


End file.
